Sherlock stared after the girl - nay, the woman - he'd so impulsively kissed, then bestowed an annoyed glare on John. "Your timing, John Watson…"
"Is impeccable, your majesty," his friend interrupted him with a hint of sternness. "You asked for a half-hour, and I gave you that, although I must admit to being somewhat taken aback at finding you kissing a lass." He raised an eyebrow, an implicit request for details that Sherlock was entirely lacking in desire to share.
"I presume it's time for us to return to the camp," he grumbled as he shoved the hood off his head. His crown had tilted back on his head at some point and he straightened it, carefully positioning it so that it rested like the cursed golden head-manacle that it was on his brow. "I suppose they're finally ready to travel the last five miles to Appledore Keep?"
John nodded, waiting courteously for Sherlock to fall into step next to him as they retraced their steps back to the game trail they'd followed. Neither spoke for the remainder of the journey, and Sherlock tried in vain not to think of the woman he'd kissed.
He rarely acted so impulsively as he had this very afternoon. He didn't even know her name, but what did it matter? He would never see her again. She would marry the blackguard who'd threatened her family in some manner, an unpleasant fate for anyone, but that was the way of the world, or so he'd always been told. Even if he wanted to find some way to help her, in this matter his hands were tied; she was one of Magnussen's vassals and any attempts to come to her aid would be viewed with suspicion by the older man. And loath though he was to admit it, Sherlock needed this alliance, did he wish to retain his throne.
And although a large part of him wished for nothing more than to be freed of the burden of rulership, he would not disgrace the memory of his parents or brother by running away from his responsibilities, no matter how heavily they weighed.
His mind returned to its contemplation of the lass he'd kissed. Her eyes had been a deep, warm brown, brimming with intelligence, and she had been remarkably unafraid of him. Oh, it was obvious she had no idea who he actually was, but she should have been wary of any strange nobleman approaching her when she was alone. He smiled as he remembered how soft and warm her lips had been, how she'd not pulled away when his tongue had flicked against her sweet, sweet mouth...and if John had not made an appearance, he might very well have been tempted to do more than simply kiss her.
Such brooding, uncomfortable thoughts plagued him for the rest of the journey to Appledore, and were only chased away by the hullabaloo of their arrival. All the usual pomp and circumstance attended that arrival, including the presentation of the daughter. She'd curtsied deeply upon her introduction, and he'd discovered she was at least superficially everything he'd been told she was: beautiful, soft-spoken, well-mannered...and just as boring as he'd expected.
As the afternoon progressed he discovered more about her, and not all of it to her credit. Oh, she was clever enough, but it was clear she had no interest in anything other than bettering her already-elevated station in life. The idea of being married to her, of making her his queen, was abhorrent to him, but he could see how the wind blew: he didn't need a fortnight to determine that Charles Magnussen would withdraw his support and likely find a way to clandestinely fund a new rebellion if his daughter was rejected.
Damnation. Sherlock had hoped to extricate himself from this visit without making any such promises. Still, he thought darkly as he smiled and nodded his way through the afternoon, if he was to be chained for life to a woman he didn't want, he would at least take one night for himself with one that he did.
He rose abruptly from the table at the head of the great hall, the others gathered there in his honor doing the same. With yet another false smile offered through gritted teeth, he prayed the indulgence of them all, citing his weariness from the week's travel he'd just endured. Magnussen gave him a hard stare, but only offered up his hope that the king would be fully recovered by the next day's hunt.
"I wouldn't miss it," Sherlock assured him with an inward grimace. At least the hunt was scheduled for the afternoon rather than the morning. Then he made his exit, feeling Magnussen's poisonous gaze on his back until he and John had left the great hall far behind them.
He endured the presence of the servant girl tasked with leading him to his chambers, and dismissed her in spite of her obvious willingness to stay and tend to him - both in bed and out, doubtless. He likewise dismissed his valet Wiggins, who seemed quite eager to further make the acquaintance of the young woman. He scurried off after her without a backward glance, clearly pleased that his duties would not be required until the next day.
He felt John Watson's eye on him and turned to face him. "Yes, John, my desire for an early retirement was a ruse. I require your assistance in a matter of some delicacy."
John's brow lowered apprehensively. "Pray tell me you you're not planning some foolish escapade, majesty."
Sherlock gave him his most disarming smile. "When have you ever known me to waste my time on foolish escapades, John?" Clapping the other man heartily on the shoulder, he added, "All my escapades are well thought out and meticulously planned."
Ignoring John's now-skeptical expression, he began the arduous process of removing the many layers of his formal garb. "And what is this 'meticulously planned' escapade, then?" John asked with a long-suffering sigh.
"I need you to go into Fitton," Sherlock said as he loosened his belt and dropped it to the floor. "The young bride we met this afternoon, bring her to me."
John gawped at him for a long moment, clearly struggling to reconcile what he'd just heard his king say against what he meant by those words. "Forgive me, my lord, but did you just ask me to kidnap a bride away from her own wedding?"
"Ordered, not asked, but yes, that is exactly what I want you to do." Before John could voice the next protest so obvious in his eyes, Sherlock added, "She's a bartered bride sacrificing her future happiness for the protection of her family, marrying someone she does not and never will love for the greater good." He cocked a sardonic eyebrow at his trusted friend. "Does that sound at all familiar to you? Trust me, John, she'll not protest, or not mean a word of it if she does. And this-" he pried a gem-encrusted ring from his finger and tossed it to the other man "-will more than make up for any disaccommodation on the part of the disgruntled bridegroom. He's a greedy man, and my claiming of this royal right will be trumpeted by him as a sign of favor. Especially if I send his less than pristine bride back to him with a pouch full of gold."
"If you wished to purchase her favors, why not simply offer her the gold when you gave her that less-than-chaste farewell kiss?" John asked, arms folded across his chest and brow lowered in disapproval. "Or pay off her family's debt to the merchant - yes, I heard the gossip in town - and take your 'reward' then?"
"Because she's not a whore, and would have refused me under those circumstances," Sherlock said dismissively. "Besides, at the time, I did not find myself trapped into a marriage I had fully expected to avoid. I fear I underestimated the extent of Magnussen's ambitions," he muttered angrily as he began to pace an agitated circle from chamber door to window to bed and back again. He gave the raised steps of the curtained, velvet-covered bed a baleful glare before looking back at John, whose expression had finally altered into one more approaching sympathy rather than condemnation.
Sherlock finished up his latest circuit of the room, coming to a direct stop in front of the other man and laying a hand on his shoulder. "We both enter into loveless matches," he said softly, willing his friend to understand. "Should we not take our pleasure from one another for just one night, before duty calls us away? She did not stay passive when I kissed her, John, surely you saw that I was not forcing her, that she was as impassioned by the kiss as I was!"
When John nodded reluctant agreement, Sherlock felt a surge of excitement clench his stomach. With that single movement, his friend signalled his willingness to do as his king had commanded. "I'll fetch her," he said, finally tucking the ring into the small leather pouch hanging from his belt. "No doubt she'll be frightened, but I shall do my best to reassure her that you mean her no harm by exercising your right of the first night." He paused, staring hard at his king, who had gone very still. With a resigned sigh, John said, "I'm not going at all, am I."
Sherlock grinned and shook his head; the plan he'd just come up with far superior to the one he'd originally conceived. "No, John, you're not. But ready your horse; I shall need use of it." With those words, the king turned on his heel and began rushing about, madly pulling off the heavy weight of his robes and rummaging in his trunks for the clothes he'd been wearing when he first encountered the young bride-to-be in Fitton.
She'd responded to his kiss with a passion that had startled and pleased him; would she come unwillingly when he fetched her, or would she be relieved that her lifetime submission to the man she'd been forced to marry would be postponed for another night?
Welladay, he'd know soon enough. He nodded distractedly when John asked if he'd like his ring back, then shook his head, plucking all but one from his fingers and dumping them like so many worthless pebbles on the small stool sat next to his baggage.
Within minutes he was ready to go, shrugging into his most travel-stained cloak and more than satisfied with the minimal disguise he'd donned. He started to toss his hated crown into the open trunk from which various pieces of discarded clothing now hung, then changed his mind and carefully laid it on the highest of the three steps leading up to his bed. With a nod of satisfaction, he turned to John. "Now," he said, clapping his hands together briskly, "I'll be off. I've already memorized the route from the servant's staircase to this room, when I insisted on that 'little tour' upon our arrival, and am confident I shall both leave and arrive unseen by our host."
"And if any of the servants whisper of your activities to Magnussen? For surely you'll not be able to completely avoid notice by them," John said disapprovingly.
Sherlock shrugged. "Surely you don't think that comely young maiden who escorted us here was offering her services to me without his lordship's knowledge and approval? Nay, tis in his best interests to keep me happy, any appetites I might have well fed - the carrot, if you like, before he subtly applies the stick. As long as this royal visit ends with a royal engagement, he won't care what I do in the meantime."
John continued to murmur protests and warnings, all of which Sherlock ignored as he sent him off to prepare his horse. All he could think about was the desperation he was feeling, the sense of being trapped - and how very much he wanted to steal this one night for himself and someone who found herself in exactly the same situation.
Her enthusiasm for his embrace hadn't been feigned; he'd seen the dark expansion of her pupils, heard her breath hitch, seen the way she'd swayed toward him. No, he was not alone in his desire, and soon they would be able to quench their mutual passion.